Greed

All posts tagged Greed

“In the stories, though, it’s worth it. Always worth it to have tried, even if you fail, even if you fall like a meteor forever. Better to have flamed in the darkness, to have inspired others, to have lived, than to have sat in the darkness, cursing the people who borrowed, but did not return, your candle.”
– Neil Gaiman, The Man Who Forgot Ray Bradbury

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a terrible adult. It seems that I never fold laundry, I owe everyone money, I always forgot to check the mail, and I’m constantly drinking spoiled milk. On good days, I am able to convince myself that these minor defeats give me character and make me interesting; they give me something to write about.

And I keep trying, because that’s the point, right? The point is to keep trying.

My author page on Facebook has been experiencing more activity than usual, and I want to capitalize by composing a riveting, engaging blog post, but I’ve been lacking inspiration. I’ve also been lacking motivation. I haven’t written anything. I haven’t graded anything.

Last week was rough.

My twin sister returned to rehab a week ago today. I try to remind myself that relapse, whether or not anyone likes it, is a part of recovery. I force myself to consider the alternative, about where else she’d be if she wasn’t trying to get help. Neither scenario does much to lessen the disappointment, the frustration, the anger, or the sadness. It’s a gross, turbulent mess of emotions that I’m trying to compartmentalize and shrink so that they can be better processed and dealt with appropriately. But it’s hard; it’s so hard.

But I keep trying, because that’s the point, right? The point is to keep trying.

“Because, perhaps, if this works, they will remember him. All of them will remember him. His name will … become synonymous with … love. And my name will be forgotten. I am willing to pay that price ….”
– Neil Gaiman, The Man Who Forgot Ray Bradbury

That wasn’t entirely true, what I said earlier, about not having written anything. I’ve written some things, but nothing I’ve been thrilled with or necessarily proud of. I worry my writing – the themes, the characters, the dialogue – is repetitive. I worry I’ve written all of this before, and that might be because the object of my affection is every character I’ve ever written, is the epitome of every romantic fantasy I’ve ever had, and so it all comes back to him in one way or another. What’s especially troubling, and simultaneously amazing about being a writer, is that I invented this man before he appeared before me in the flesh (talk about a god complex, huh?). In college, before I had ever met this man, I started a novel and wrote, “He couldn’t watch her fawn over another man, couldn’t tell her how he felt because it was too late and he’d ruin it for her.” Swap the genders of the pronouns and I am my own prophet. It’s crazy; I said everything I should have said to him years before I met him. How depressing.

I wrote a poem, too.

I put the kettle on for tea
and pulled my leggings from the dryer
I hope there’s time for breakfast
before I go about setting the world on fire

Burning devastation – turn it all to heat and ash
There’s something freeing about going mad
To face the world with wild, reckless abandon
To give in, to be selfish, to be ignorant and bad

Consequences will come swift and sure
Rolling quickly like so many rocks downhill
But it could absolutely all be worth it
For the liberation that accompanies the kill

What does being so reserved get you,
maybe a curtsy and a smile?
None of the mystery, intrigue and danger
that can go along with being vile

But I don’t think I’d really go so dark. It’s easy to not consider anyone or anything else other than my own wants and desires, but that doesn’t make it right. It’s difficult to do what is right, at least sometimes.

But I keep trying, because that’s the point, right? The point is to keep trying.

The older I grow, the more I believe that life truly does have a rather funny way of helping one out. I am fortunate enough to find myself in winning situations more often than not. For example, my dad offered to take me to see a film and then out to eat on Friday night. My little brother came along, and we saw “Runner Runner” with Justin Timberlake and Ben Affleck. The movie was thoroughly entertaining (and I found Ben Affleck to be particularly engaging … and handsome) and as we were walking out of the theater, we were all intrigued by a small crowd outside. They were all females; seven teenagers and two middle-aged women. Dad, being the ultimate nosey body, asked what was up, and one of the women admitted they were in a bit of a pickle. Apparently, the women had dinner plans and purchased tickets for the teenagers to see “Prisoners.” However, because the movie was rated R, the employee who had sold the tickets insisted an adult over twenty-one years of age accompany the girls for the duration of the film and assured the women there would be a theater check conducted to prevent any kind of circumvention. Dad started laughing because I had in fact argued for seeing “Prisoners,” even though he had already seen it with my little brother a week or so ago. There I was, offered an opportunity to see a movie I was very anxious to see, for free. It isn’t a cosmically epic moment that decides the fates of nations or anything as brilliant, but it is a moment nonetheless. It is also the kind of moment that is readily and often attainable. I wonder if I shouldn’t chase small smile moments such as those, rather than scenes from silver screens.

I know I’ll chase both.

WEEKLY PROMPT #3: “Four men decide to rob a bank. Two of the men intend to take all of the money, even if it means killing their partners.”

THIEVES

Harvey sat at the end of the emptying bar, a tumbler of warming whiskey before him. He held his face in his hands, calloused palms scratched by the thick, rough bristles of hair coating his jawline and chin. It had been a while since the last time Harvey had shaved, most likely because it had been a while since the last time Harvey had identified any reason to shave. Pride in personal appearance had a tendency to go by the wayside when one found himself unemployed and miserable. It was that exact desperation that had led him here, to this seedy bar. Jeff, a buddy from Harvey’s old job, had stopped by the apartment to see how Harvey was making out. The accumulated trash and lack of even basic maintenance had concerned Jeff, and so he sat Harvey down and shared a detailed yet outrageous plan to rob the local bank. Harvey had scoffed until her saw the serious lines of Jeff’s face pull together in an almost convincing display. Inexplicably outraged, Harvey had leapt to his feet and roared about laws and safety and the improbability of making it out of there alive, let alone with the money. Jeff had persistent, however, and calmed Harvey down and inspired him with a dangerous kind of optimism that only desperate and miserable men are capable of. Thus, Harvey had followed Jeff to the Bar Miraculous to meet with the others, some guys named Ben and Matt that Harvey had never seen before. Ben was big and brawny, an intimidating fellow who seemed to dutifully follow Matt wherever and whenever. Matt was significantly smaller than his counterpart, and to see them seated beside one another at the bar would have made John Steinbeck nostalgic for his ranchers in Soledad.

The men had sat side by side at the bar, four in a row. They rarely, if ever, made eye contact with one another, and they talked out of the sides of their mouths, although Harvey hadn’t said a word. He had only nodded or grunted to show his approval and consent. The plan had been developed mainly by Matt, with Jeff tweaking and augmenting here and there as he seemed to be more familiar with the area and even the employees. The next course of action was to meet at Matt’s apartment in two nights, to case the bank the night before. They would also discuss further details and tighten any and all loose ends; dot the Is and cross the Ts as it were. Suddenly and simply, Matt and Ben had excused themselves and left. Jeff clapped Harvey on the shoulder and headed to the restroom. Thus, Harvey had been left to his own devices, to sit and drink and think. He wasn’t sure how he felt, how truly on board he was. Robbers never got away with it, not even in the movies, and they were not professionals by any stretch of the imagination. They were bums, average Joes who had suffered no great tragedy, but only wanted more than what they had faster than they could acquire it. Planning to rob a bank did not make them some antiheroes or anything as glamorous. It did not make them intelligent or brave. If anything, it defined them as lazy and cruel and dumb, dumb for taking such an absurd risk. They were no Dillinger, seemingly stealing from the rich. They were the poor so they would take and keep for themselves; where was the honor in that? Amidst Harvey’s existential sort of crisis, Jeff returned. There was the familiar clap on the shoulder and groan of the aged, wooden bar stool as Jeff reclaimed his seat.

“So what do you think? How are you feeling?”

Harvey shrugged and took the tumbler before him in his hand. Rather than sip from it, he moved his wrist to swirl the alcohol and he pensively watched the liquid lap against the sides. “I don’t know, man. It’s awfully risky.”

“It is,” Jeff conceded, “but look at us, man. Look at our lives, for Christ’s sake. We work too God damn hard to be this fucking poor.” He drank deeply from the bottle before him. “Shit, they kicked you to the curb. How long do you figure you’ll kick around, practically begging for a job, any job, even if it’s below your pay grade and skill level? What way is that for anyone to live?”

“I agree, you know I do, but –”

“Matt has everything figured out, Harvey. He has it timed to the fucking second, I shit you not. As long as we stick to the time table, we’ll be fine, just about untouchable.” Jeff smiled. “What have you got to lose?”

Harvey was not amused. “Oh, I don’t know; my life? My freedom?” In fact, Harvey was only sarcastic and bitter.

“It’s a solution to a problem,” Jeff persisted. “We need money, so we take money. We’re talking enough to get the hell out of dodge and start over. We can be whoever we want to be. We don’t have to be losers who go home alone night after night in cars that barely start in clothes off the clearance rack.” He looked down at the wooden grain of the countertop of the bar. He lowered his voice. “And if we knock off Matt and Ben, pin it on them and silence them, we can get away scot free.”

Harvey’s eyes went wide. “What?”

“The only thing holding you back is getting caught, right? Of course it is; that makes sense! So let’s eliminate that and we are suddenly completely uninhibited!”

“Stealing is one thing, Jeff, but murder is another. I can’t –”

“You’re going to go all noble on me, really? Do I have to remind you about the office Christmas party? Nancy was all sorts of messed up, but that didn’t stop you from –”

“Shut up,” Harvey said. He had intended it to be a command, but it had been more of a desperate plea. That’s all he was, was desperate. Jeff knew it, and seized upon the opportunity.

“Come on, man. They’re nothing to us. We could be doing the universe a karmic favor. What do you say?”

Harvey looked at himself for a long, long moment in the cracked mirror above the shelves of liquor.

I really, really enjoy “True Blood.” I have yet to read the book series upon which the television show is based.

That’s all; enjoy the prompt. 🙂

PROMPT: A young man works his way into an apprenticeship with a slick salesman.

PIECE: Alex looked back at his reflection staring back out at him in the glossy elevator doors. He exhaled his breath and straightened his tie, which had been a gift from his girlfriend. His mind drifted back to earlier that morning, when Mallory had stood before him on her bare tip toes. She had kissed his cheek and buttoned the top button of his expensive shirt. She had flipped the collar up and roped the tie around his neck. Alex had made some off-color remark about the fabric feeling more like a noose than a tie. Mallory had displayed an exaggerated expression of shock and dismay, and had swatted Alex playfully on the shoulder. “Remember what I told you,” she said. “If it gets too intense, or if it isn’t absolutely everything that you’ve wanted, cut and run. No harm, no foul; you deserve to be happy.” At that sentiment, Alex had cupped Mallory’s perfect face in his undeserving hands and kissed her long and good – mostly, he did this so she would stop talking. It was unmanly to cry, and he had to be serious for his first day of work with Edgar Steenson.

Edgar Steenson was the man every other guy in a suit wanted to be, and who every woman wanted to have on her arm when she stepped out into public view. He was the smoothest talker Alex had ever heard; Edgar was the kind of guy who could convince Ryan Seacrest that he needed public speaking lessons, and rumor had it that the movie “Inception” was in fact Edgar’s idea, and that he had come up with it while taking a particularly long shit in Christopher Nolan’s toilet. Steenson was the stuff of legend, the Gordon Gecko of his time. Lucky for Alex, he had been chosen to be Edgar’s assistance. Of course, Alex had jumped at the chance to watch the master in action. If Alex played his cards right, he could be made partner and never have to really work another blessed day in his life. He could afford to give Mallory the kind of life she deserved.

Right now though, all the glory seemed incredibly far away and all Alex could focus on was that he suddenly felt as if his stomach were going to drop straight out of his anus. He kept breathing in deep and exhaling slowly, trying to calm himself and keep himself from imagining the million and one things that could go horribly, terribly wrong. What if he threw up on Edgar upon meeting him? What if he broke the copier, or the fax machine? What if he confused some numbers and ruined the quarter, and sent some very important people to jail? Every movie he had ever seen depicting these particular kinds of suited sharks in expensive looking glass tanks with leggy secretaries ran through his mind.

Then the elevator doors slid open and outside them, just a step or two beyond the threshold, lay Alex’s future. Another deep breath and he stepped forward.